I Did Something Bad (Why's It Feel So Good?)
by breaksforbirds
Summary: Helena is not afraid of anything except the ghosts that haunt her.


A/N: WildWest!AU, best AU. Title is a reference a Taylor Swift song because I am a #basicwhitegirl

Written for:

**Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Round 1: Snake Humour**

Position: Reserve Beater 2 for the Holyhead Harpies

Prompt: "Hell's Grannies". Best moment? When the grannies start graffitiing "Make tea, not love" on the walls. **Write about someone who looks innocent but is evil on the inside. (Tom Riddle is not allowed for this prompt)**

Word Count (Google Docs): 2,213

* * *

**I Did Something Bad (Why's It Feel So Good?)**

When the dust settles and the sheriff drags the wrong girl off to jail, Helena Ravenclaw is left to spit blood from between her teeth and squint up at the sun while she wonders how long it will take the townspeople of Phoenix, Arizona to realize that they have made a mistake.

She can feel dozens of eyes peeking out at her from behind windows and curtains, but she doesn't care. She knows what they see: a soft face, a small waist, a delicate frame. They see long dark curls and an easy smile and the innocent, "damsel-in-distress" expression she has worn her entire life without even trying.

(They _don't_ see the pistol strapped to her thigh or the stolen loot in her saddlebag, but that's because Helena Ravenclaw has never given anyone a reason to search.)

"Are you all right, Miss?" A man in a bowler hat ventures from the porch of the general store and offers her a handkerchief.

She uses it to dab at her split lip. "Yes, I think so."

"Do you need a doctor? I can escort you if you—"

"I'm fine." Helena hands the man back his handkerchief. "I bit my tongue, that's all. It looks worse than it is." Gently, she prods at her mouth with a finger. "Goodness gracious, I just can't imagine why she hit me."

The man shakes his head. "Don't pay her any mind. We all saw what happened—she came running at you for no reason and punched you right in the mouth."

Helena's tongue darts out of her mouth to taste the blood on her lips.

"Are you new in town, or just a drifter?" asks the man.

The sun is hot on her face. "Just passing through." She wipes at her forehead with the back of her wrist. "Is there somewhere my horse and I can get a drink?"

The man points down the street toward a large saloon with a wrap-around wooden porch and a low trough filled with water. "The Grey Lady."

"Thank you." She moves toward the hitching rail beside the general store, where she had tied up her horse before all the trouble began. "Come on, Diadem."

Nickering softly, Diadem follows.

* * *

_Helena is trapped and it's dark and she's sobbing as she beats on the cellar door and screams _let me out _to a man who is not listening._

* * *

The Grey Lady is packed with people, and as Helena wades toward the counter, she remembers all over again why she left the city last year. She can't stand the crowds, the bodies, the _sweat—_give her open skies and empty deserts any day.

"Mule skinner," she says. The bartender raises his eyebrows at the order but doesn't comment. He passes her the drink in silence. "Thank you."

He nods, just once.

She takes a sip. "How much?"

"On the house."

She smiles that easy smile and gives him a long, slow once-over. "Thank you kindly."

He picks up a dishrag and swipes it across the counter. "Haven't seen you around these parts before."

"I'm a tourist." She sips again, wincing a little as the alcohol seeps into the cut on her lip.

He notices. "You're the one who caused all that commotion outside with Minerva."

Helena traces the rim of her glass with her finger. "Is that her name? I didn't catch it."

The bartender twists the dishrag between his hands. "Wonder what you did to make her throw a punch at you like that."

* * *

_Helena is bleeding and sobbing and begging him to _stop, stop, stop_, and he spits back harsh words about the way she's always _making _him punish her, and the silver band around her finger is almost as tight as his grip around her throat, and she is dizzy…._

* * *

Helena glances to the left. A saloon patron has taken the seat beside her, but he is talking animatedly to his friend and doesn't appear to be eavesdropping. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" The bartender smirks. "Do women often go off and hit you, then?"

She clenches her jaw. "No, as a matter of fact, they don't."

The bartender is silent for a moment. "What's your name?"

She could lie, but what's the point? "Helena."

He nods as if to indicate that he's going to lock her name away in his memory.

"And your name?" she asks when it becomes apparent that he is not going to introduce himself.

"Barron." He leans an elbow on the counter. "So you don't know why Minerva hit you? Not any idea at all?"

"You're awfully interested in this Minerva woman."

"No, no." He shakes his head slowly. "I'm just trying to figure out why you look so familiar."

Helena is suddenly keenly aware of the pistol strapped against her thigh. She gets to her feet, fighting hard to maintain her composure. "I suppose I just have a very generic face." She glances over her shoulder. "I'm going to see if my horse needs any more water."

"Helena." He says her name thoughtfully, like he's chewing it, swallowing it, digesting the syllables. "Helena, Helena, Helena…"

He trails off suddenly.

She turns just in time to catch the flicker of recognition in his expression.

"_Ravenclaw._"

It's no more than a whisper, but it echoes through her bones like a gong. Her heart sinks. She shouldn't have stayed for a drink—she should have ridden out of here with the loot when she'd had the opportunity—

* * *

_Helena is bruised and numb and silent, and the louder her husband snores beside her, the more certain she becomes about her half-formed plan._

* * *

"Say that name again," she growls, "and you'll be very, very, sorry."

Barron raises his eyebrows, a faint smirk appearing on his face. "You and Diadem are a long way from home, aren't you?"

She feels sick. Slowly, she sinks back into her chair. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, don't you?" He waits for her to make eye contact, and then slowly slides his gaze toward the collection of yellowed WANTED posters on the wall. There she is, plain as day: Helena Ravenclaw, wanted for thievery in seven states.

(Not wanted for anything else, but that's because they haven't been able to connect the rest of the crimes back to her yet.)

She exhales hard. "So my picture's made it to Arizona, has it?"

"Oh, yes." Barron braces both hands against the counter. "Even around these parts, you're famous."

She sucks in a cheek. "It barely looks like me anymore."

It's true—the photo in question was taken at her wedding, almost six months before she had run away. She'd been all dressed up in white lace, her hair pinned back in an elegant twirl, her skin pale and unkissed by the sun. She looks naive and young and _innocent._

(She looks just like her mother.)

"If it helps, I never would have recognized you without the name." Barron twists his dishrag in his hands again. "I've read all about you in the papers, though."

"Everything in the paper is a lie." She tenses her leg, wondering how fast she can reach her pistol. If he's smart, he'll keep his mouth shut, let her walk out of here without anyone getting hurt. If he insists on being stupid…

"Is it?" He has the nerve to look amused. "So you're _not _the daughter of New York's wealthiest socialite, Rowena Ravenclaw?"

She slams a fist against the counter. "What did I tell you about that name?"

"And you _didn't _steal her prized mare to come traipsing across the wild, wild west, robbing helpless rich townsfolk whenever you—oh! Is _that _why Minerva punched you? You tried to _rob _her?"

In one swift motion, Helena reaches under her skirt and draws the pistol. Holding it so that it glints in the lamplight but doesn't attract the attention of anyone but the bartender, she very intentionally clicks off the safety. "We can do this the easy way, or—"

He chuckles.

He _chuckles. _

"_What _is so funny?"

"I'm not going to _turn you in_." He shakes his head, the glimmer of a smirk still evident on his face. "Relax. Put down the gun."

* * *

_Helena is young and foolish and happy, and she believes in promises from men, promises like _I'm not going to hurt you, _and she is not afraid of anyone, not now, not yet, and her wedding is tomorrow…._

* * *

She narrows her eyes. "Do you think I'm a fool?"

"Of course not." He turns briefly to pour two more drinks. He offers her one and keeps one for himself. "I happen to think you're extremely intelligent. You'd have to be, to keep evading the law after all this time. Although, I suppose it helps that you've got the type of face that lets you get away with murder."

She glowers.

"There's a $1,500 price on your head, you know."

"Fifteen hundred?" She hasn't lowered the pistol. "That's insultingly low. I've stolen over fifteen _thousand_."

"Well, that's something else the papers got wrong, then." Barron shakes his head. "They're reporting only ten."

She allows herself a smirk. "In their defense, they haven't had a chance to add in all the gold I stole today."

Barron leans against the counter again. The patrons sitting beside her have moved to the other side of the saloon, cheering on a woman who has begun to dance on a tabletop; in the midst of the crowd, Helena and the bartender are very much alone. "Why do you do it?" he asks her quietly.

"Why aren't you going to turn me in?" she snaps.

He has to think about it. "I'm just not motivated by money, I suppose."

She doesn't believe it, and she tells him as much.

He drums his fingers against the counter. "I'm like you—I'm not from around here, either. Born and raised in Chicago. Had a father who expected me to follow him into the banking business." He shrugs. "It didn't work out. I couldn't stand any of it—the walls, the politics, the _people_. I just needed space."

He has a faraway look on his face.

"Anyway, as soon as my father died, I packed up and left. Ended up here. Haven't felt the need to move since." He shrugs again. "I won't turn you in because I know a thing or two about running away. I know it's frightening. It makes you desperate. Nobody does what you do because they just _like _it."

* * *

_Helena is frightened and desperate—he MADE her frightened and desperate—and she tells herself over and over that killing him had been her only option, but she cannot deny that there is a piece of her that feels _good, _feels _powerful, _wants to do it_ again…_._

* * *

"So why do you do it?" Barron asks again.

There are a hundred reasons she could give—reasons that have to do with her mother, with her childhood, with the arranged marriage she had never wanted and the baby she had wanted _so badly _but hadn't been allowed to keep—reasons that have to do with screaming matches and broken bones and locked cellar doors and being _trapped, trapped, trapped_—but she settles on the one that makes her feel strong: "Because it's fun."

He looks almost disappointed. She wonders what he had expected to hear.

"Thank you for the drinks." She glances out the window to check on Diadem. The sun has moved into a late-afternoon position. There isn't much time now. "I should go before they figure out they locked up the innocent victim and let the evil thief get away."

"You aren't evil, Helena."

She whips back to glare at him. "You have _no idea _what I am."

"So you ran away from home and you steal from the wealthy every now and then." Barron shrugs. "There are worse crimes."

She wants to correct him—she's _dying _to correct him—her words stick in her throat—

* * *

_Helena is laughing and crying and her pistol is empty and there are six men dead at her feet but it is not enough, not enough, not enough, she could kill a hundred men and it will still not be enough, she needs the world to see that she is no longer powerless, she needs the world to see that she will never be powerless again—_

* * *

"I mean, it's not as if you've ever killed anyone." Barron smirks.

She opens her mouth—she tries to deny it—she tries—

His face falters. "You _haven't_ killed anyone, have you?"

She gazes at him for a very long moment, and then she rips her eyes away and walks out of the Grey Lady.

* * *

_Helena is not afraid of anything except the ghosts that haunt her._

* * *

In the dead of night, the sound of a gunshot wakes the town of Phoenix from its hazy slumber.

By the time they track the source of the noise to the loft above the saloon, it is too late to save the bloodied bartender, and _far _too late to catch the woman with the face that could get away with murder.

(And as Helena Ravenclaw rides into the desert on her mother's horse with the words _you aren't evil _reverberating through her mind, she realizes Barron will haunt her more than the others do.)


End file.
